


feet don't waltz when the roof caves in

by glassbones



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Red Dragon - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe - Food Service, Coping With Permanent Injury, Food Bank, Graphic Description of Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Permanent Injury, Recovery - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, aka fredragon au i've been sitting on for the past month
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassbones/pseuds/glassbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>set pre-Aperitivo. Frederick Chilton, ex-psychiatrist and aspiring writer, meets Francis Dolarhyde while volunteering at a homeless food service. </p><p>"In the Roman Catholic Church, Jude the Apostle is the patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. recovery, joy and misery

**Author's Note:**

> during my research of dolarhyde's employment, Gateway and Baeder Chemicals, and whether these companies are linked to any existing firms, Scott Bader chemical company came up. even though this fic is heavily inspired by Scott Bader's existing charity and volunteering schemes, it is in no way affiliated with the company  
> St. Jude Food Bank is the organisation listed as one of the said volunteering schemes. to my knowledge, there is a food service of the same name located in Arizona; however, the food bank that will be mentioned in this fic is entirely fictional  
> (title from cabaret's 'i don't care much')

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *bad blood -- taylor swift blaring in the distance*  
> BAND-AIDS DON'T FIX BULLET HOLES, YOU SAY SORRY JUST FOR SHOW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  art by [housewife-daily](housewife-daily.tumblr.com)  
> the fanmix that goes with the fic, two songs per chapter: http://8tracks.com/warholings/feet-don-t-waltz-when-the-roof-caves-in

Frederick has been conscious, on and off, for a few days before becoming.. aware of his surroundings, for a lack of a better description.

("Utter loss of control over own life" describes his state perfectly. He's not going to admit it, mind you.)

The monitor beep is loud and the hospital-issue sheets are too rough against his skin. He doesn't risk opening his eyes.

He doesn't feel the pain yet; he won't, not until they ease him off the medication, and when they do, it will be reduced to a dull throbbing. Frederick almost regrets that, for some reason; maybe it's because he needs a proof that it happened, the remainder that all he's gone through was real. Maybe he's analyzing too much.

It's a good thing, Frederick supposes, that he's able to. It's a good thing he's alive.

He doesn't panic after braving to open his eyes; whatever it is they're pumping into their blood has thankfully numbed him. Frederick doesn't even feel surprised. _You were shot in the head_ , he tells himself. _Congratulations_.  
The first thing he does after pressing the nurse call button is inquire how to obtain a copyright. The second thing is demand ice chips.

* * *

It's been.. weeks, probably, since Frederick got here. They tell him he's very lucky. The surgeons take pride in explaining the bullet's exact trajectory, and how its fragments left his brain untouched, allowing him to live. They also explain, in great detail, exactly how much damage was done to his brain; how neatly did they manage to sew him back up.

They recount the damage done to his head, over and over: destroyed molars, lacerations on the tongue that resulted in partial loss of sensation, either temporart or permanent; fractured lower jaw, fractured orbital bones, punctured eyeball. His left eye can never be recovered, the doctors tell him. Frederick's very lucky.

Miriam Lass is a shit shot, he personally thinks. He doesn't share _that_ opinion, though.

His face feels weird, _he_ feels weird. Frederick can tell that the injury is messing with his head on an entirely new level. His cheek is drooping. _He survived a bullet to the head._

The FBI dropped his charges. The hospital he was assigned to offers him a teeth implant; Frederick politely refuses in favour of getting a different, more expensive implant, in a private clinic.

Frederick can't say he's scared or worried; then again, he was scared and worried aplenty back when Abel Gideon cut him up. Maybe this kind of terror is a one-time experience. Maybe Frederick is too depressed to be afraid. 

A few chats with his lawyers (plural) later, Frederick is transferred to the private clinic. A denture is made, custom, a surgery is performed to salvage what is left of his cheekbone. They touch up the exit wound but, in the end, there isn't much they can do. As soon as possible, a removable partial denture and one contact lens richer, Frederick checks out of the hospital.

He successfully copyrights "Hannibal the cannibal". The first drafts of his new book of the same name are coming together fast. The sensation in his tongue comes back, bit by bit, as the time progresses.

Frederick supposes it's not bad for a someone who survived not one, but two psychopaths. An ex-psychiatrist, a cripple, an up-and-coming writer.

He was officially removed from his position as Administrator of BSHCI back when the FBI believed him to be the Chesapeake Ripper, and, frankly, it doesn't surprise Frederick in the slightest that Alana takes his place as soon as her trauma allows her. He knows that the place will fall apart without him; Inelle, his trusty subordinate, resigns soon after Alana takes reign, taking the substantial amount of money she and Frederick had accumulated on various bank accounts, in numerous shell companies, under different names, with her; half of those accounts come into Frederick's possession after enough time has passed for it not to gain unwanted attention.

The pieces of his life, shattered as it was, are coming back together.


	2. play dumb, dead & straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so our boy francis works in st. louis, missouri (and lives in st. charles not far off. missouri has a lot of st.'s) and i had to explain how they ended up in the same place at the same time. obviously, i couldn't find a less dramatic way to do it.  
> content warnings (and these will certainly spoil some of the mystery factor): cancer, death of a parent, drinking, an excessive use of commas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ENTER JO CALDERONE!CHILTON)  
> FREDERICK: it’s been a long time since i came around / it’s been along time but i’m back in town  
> FREDERICK'S MOM: hi who this  
> FRED: it me, your son  
> MOM: hi son, i'm--  
> FRED: hoe don't do it  
> (FREDERICK'S MOM DIES)  
> FRED: oh my god

Change, in Frederick's opinion, is a natural occurence in anyone's life. Nothing is constant, except for the general laws of physics, the passing of time. All that is starts to decay the moment it was born; hence, the change, albeit a negative one in this case, is always present in some form or another.

He found it comforting during his prolonged stay at the hospital, a cold comfort though it was.

A few months after his.. after _the incident_ , he is finally allowed to go home, which, in his case, meant a shitty rented apartment, one-bedroom, furnished, weird stains on the bathroom ceiling. He throws some effort and a decent amount of money into finding proper scar makeup (the delivery guy got freaked when he saw that the Sephora bag was intended for a gross middle-aged man instead of a girl in her twenties. Frederick didn't have either his denture or the lens on; considering the rawness of his scar and the weird way his skin drooped without proper support, he must have made quite a view). After some practice, during which Frederick also acquires a beauty blender, a supply of Kat Von D tattoo concealer, and an Anastasia Beverly Hills brow kit, the last one just for the hell of it, and a few hours' worth of YouTube tutorial footage, he manages to cover his scar up well enough so that it looks like a faint discoloration instead of the dark raised angry mess that it actually is.

He always cleaned up nicely. A new bespoke, a haircut at the most pompous place he can afford, and he doesn't look like death warmed over.

That much can't be said about his psyche, though.

At least his eyebrows look nice.

* * *

 

His mother, a carefully preserved white woman in her sixties, calls him the day he finds the last of his furniture. The next day, he takes off at sunrise, taking only as much as won't slow him down in his travel. The drive from Baltimore to Washington takes a little more than an hour. The plane to St. Louis takes two. By lunchtime he's in her house, the rest of their family slowly coming together for the first time in what has to be decades. Cancer, she says. _Chordoma_ . Caught early enough so it's not incurable. Difficulties connected to her age. He doesn't cry because that's not the way she raised him, but he holds her hand a bit. For the first time in what has to be decades. The family, which has always been a snake nest, a bunch of quiet and dangerous and seething with hate people, presents as a united front before what Frederick can only think of as a future loss. They don't talk about Federica's (because _of course_ she would name her son after herself) illness, but his cousin, Tia, procures a bottle of Jack, which they polish off together quite nicely: Frederick, her, and two other cousins who aren't technically old enough to drink.

They drink out of wine glasses. Frederick asks after their respective families. They stay quiet, mostly; Tia's got engaged to a girl from her job. Frederick wonders where she is on the Kinsey scale. Tia's a four. Frederick high-fives.

It goes on like this for two days (Federica, ever the thoughtful planner, gathered them all on Friday evening). The crowd begins to disperse on Sunday, Frederick at the exit, silently marveling that nobody was dumb enough to bring their children into what soon will become a hospice. He counts the cars as they drive out one by one. " _Bye_ " is stuck to the roof of his mouth, he's said it so many times over the day. Tia stays, saying she couldn't _possibly_ trust him with her favourite aunt. She goes back home in a few days when the hospital smell really starts to set in, medicine and chlorine and the stale air.

_You can leave the hospital_ , Frederick thinks grimly , e-mailing his landlord about whether his stuff could be shipped from Baltimore; he payed a few months ahead shortly before leaving, so it should all resolve favorably, _but the hospital never really leaves you_.

He first gets drunk, properly shit-faced, on Thursday in a ratty pub down the street. He spends the following evening in what claims to be a brasserie but is actually a slightly less gross pub. The St. Louis habits, long forgotten kick back in fast.

Frederick stops going out drinking soon after. He watches his mom slowly get worse. She remains pretty cheerful until it gets bad enough she can't walk anymore: her house isn't exactly wheelchair accessible, her arms are weak, it's tiring and embarassing for everyone involved. Frederick cries then, kneels in front of her as she sits in her favorite armchair, reading glasses on the tip of her nose, and holds her hand in his. It's small and pale by comparison, has age-related pigment spots where his hands are freckled. He's got the freckles from her, Frederick knows.

Exactly two years and a month later, she dies in a hospital room. Frederick's only solace is that she didn't die alone like his father did a decade ago. He held her hand that night, watching her sleep. He didn't quite notice when her breathing stopped but it was the coldness of her hand that snapped him out reverie. It felt so wrong, her skin strangely yellow against the bluish white of the hospital sheets. She didn't look peaceful, just tired and small.

Frederick holds back his tears until the cremation, when it became weirdly important for their ( _his_ ) family to see that he grieves, that it's worse for him than for the rest of them.  
She didn't get along with Frederick at all, but he makes a speech nonetheless. It's short and passionate and has just enough of that sad, soft quality that comes with the feeling of loss. A perfect son he's never been, paying his last respect to the mother he never really had, not in the usual, there-for-you way.

Frederick cries, and he doesn't try to make it less shameful and ugly than it actually is. The tears smudge his scar makeup, the relatives stare. He doesn't hold a banquet after the ceremony mainly out of spite. Tia goes home with him, rummages around in his kitchen until she finds something alcoholic and sweet.

A week later Frederick uncovers the mirrors, airs out all the rooms and changes out of the mourning black. He donates all of his mother's clothes to the first charity he can find; odd trinkets that hold no value for him go in the trashpile next. The letters and the photographs stay, tucked away in cardboard boxes for storage. Enough is enough. He has to move _on_.

After considerable time, enough for him to binge-watch the entire _Friends_ , Frederick does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, this has not been either proofread or betaed. if you noticed any mistakes, PLEASE please let me know. moreover, if you happen to have prompts or general suggestions or whatever, you can always hit me up either on here or at photobombur.tumblr.com  
> since i don't quite see where the story will lead me yet, any and all prompts will be if not written, then at least given some proper thought to
> 
> to give you an idea how terrible is this word vomit i just spawned, if you hadn't realized yet: it's 2AM, i have classes in 6 hours, and i'm so damn tired i forgot to paste an entire chunk of text into the chapter AND messed up the tense in that chunk. hello!  
> ps chordoma is a type of bone cancer that usually starts in the spinal cord


	3. a difference between us and a million miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (ENTER INELLE)  
> INELLE: hello darling  
> FREDERICK: new number who dis

Inelle calls him shortly after the funeral.

"Hello, darling," her voice is husky and deep, just as Frederick remembers it.

"Inelle," he's in the middle of doing his dishes, pinning the phone between his shoulder and his ear to towel his hands off.

"Figured I should check up on you. How're you holding up?"

"'M okay," he doesn't quite lie.

"Sure you are," she exhales. "Anyway, I'm probably coming over to St. Louis soon, thought I'd give you a heads up."

"What reason?"

"Business," Frederick hears the clicking of her lighter, then the familiar sound as she breathes the cigarette smoke out. "I got friends over at Gateway, they hooked me up with an administrative position at Baeder Chemicals. Might as well check it out."

"Oh."

"Aw, Fred. No need to get all clipped and short on me. Anyway, there's that," he can imagine her smile as it stretches over his name, soft and amused.

"Come on, Inelle, you know me better than that," and she does, they go back a long way. She used to study in the same school as him back in Canton, a few years his junior. Frederick's family moved right after the high school graduation, but they kept in touch since. "Come _on_. How are you doing?"

They talk for a few more minutes, about everything and nothing in particular. Frederick cracks a joke or two.

"You know," Inelle says after a pause, "you should do charity or something."

"Huh?"

"You know, volunteering , all that jazz. Feeding the homeless. Helping the poor. Doing something with all that money and free time you got." He doesn't tell her about the book, the piles of drafts that are beginning to accumulate on every flat surface in his room. Inelle's not wrong about it.

"I think there's a food bank around here somewhere," he replies, thoughtful. "I don't know. You're right, I mean. I, uh. I'll think about it."

"I'll hold you up on that. Good talk, Fred. I'll e-mail you the flight details later."

" _Bye_ , Inelle." She hangs up.

Absentmindedly, he returns to his dishes, the soapy water now cold. Frederick isn't used to caring about other people; giving other people much thought, even. He always prided himself on the specific brand of egotism that has been cultivated in him: by his mother, by his social circle. His needs come first. Later, as he grew up, Frederick realized the logic of being polite enough so as his own needs don't go in the way of others', but that was the extent of it.

Maybe, he figures, it's time to change that; time to care about himself a little less.

* * *

Frederick entertains, albeit briefly, the notion of ignoring Inelle and doing nothing. It would be easier to just get back to the life he was leading before: before Mother's death before the injury, just before.

He soon discards the notion. It's not that Frederick feels obligated to Inelle or compelled to help; he simply has the opportunity to and doesn't see reason in doing otherwise. Time simply cannot be reversed. He can't go back to the lifestyle he has chosen for himself back then. He is a changed man.

At that, establishing what feels like a truth that's been there in the back of his mind a long time, he stops thinking about time and choice and fate for good. Frederick has made a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck, the fourth chapter was ORIGINALLY supposed to be the second, but research and setting keep getting in the way of the actual storyline. i was planning to post one giant chapter, but APPARENTLY there is a shit ton of research to be done, so part 2 will (hopefully) be posted soon after this one  
> boy, i had NO idea food banks are so complicated  
> kudos to tanya for making me go with food service instead of the dog show (does anyone want to read about the dog show? because i do. chilton at the dog show for the win. fredragon, with reeba coming along to pet all the doggies. i'm getting sidetracked)  
> anyway, there's that; as usual, forward me any prompts because at this point i'm desperate to hear anything that has the potential to move the story forward


	4. comfortable in chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short, and i mean SHORT, filler chapter while i figure out the plot  
> !i made the accompanying fanmix! http://8tracks.com/warholings/feet-don-t-waltz-when-the-roof-caves-in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, i'm so so sorry for the delay! life got in the way. from now on, expect (bi-)weekly updates on friday, 1800 GMT

St. Jude Food Bank is a clean, if a little battered, white building with what Frederick can only describe as an Edward Scissorhands lawn. The ride from his place is a short, if a busy, one. The girl at the reception isn't the one he called yesterday, inquiring about their volunteer schemes; her voice is lighter and softer in a way Frederick can't quite describe.

She's very young, Eton crop and thick-rimmed glasses against her olive skin. Frederick is suddenly glad he took extra time doing his makeup this morning. He doesn't want to know how she'd react to his scar.

He introduces himself. After a short while spent rummaging in the reception desk drawers the girl, Jude, produces an application form.

Frederick almost writes the wrong address, then after some hesitation puts Inelle as his emergency contact under "Friend". He skips the "Volunteer Interests" entirely, writes an edited version of truth under "Health" and makes genuine effort to make his signature legible. It takes him a little under half an hour to complete the form. Eton Crop says they will call him back; judging by her genuine attempts at making acquaintance and the general desolation at the office, they actually will.

At the end, works out in his favor, as it always does.

They call him back the day after the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to give y'all an idea of what's to come, here's a rough plot (typos as they are in the original draft):  
> 1-3 intro  
> 4 - chiltno visits st jude  
> 5 - chiltno meets fran(cis)  
> 6 - chiltno works at st jude  
> 7 - "then he meets dolarhyde. they fucc" (c) irene glassbones, ??.10.2015  
> 8 - plot? proabb l? ,,?  
> 9 - Meet Reeba, the Only Sane Person in The Room  
> 10 - ? plot ? wh. chiltno romances dolarhyde  
> 11 - more plot ,,?/ chiltno makes friends with tOSPitR aka reeba  
> 12 - endi gn ?.. or.... NOT???? ? ?
> 
> yeah, this is pretty much how all my drafts look. sorry  
> 


	5. hold me down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter dolarhyde! warnings for nsfw content, alcohol, softcore smoking, one-night stands (not really though)

_Saturday,_ 06:45

....As far as one night stand decisions go, this hasn't been Frederick's worst. He doesn't bear _thinking_ about his worst, though.

The situation is, it's quarter to seven am, he's in bed with a beautiful man, and chances are, he will be coming back to said bed rather regularly in the near future.

This is how Frederick got there:

* * *

 _Friday,_ 13:17

It's Frederick's first day. after checking in with Eton Crop and having his employer badge, along with some basic instructions, handed to him, he got shown around by her.  
The job is not exactly the hardest, certainly less difficult than Frederick's.. previous place of employment, but there is a certain challenge to it nonetheless. It's been too long,

 _Saturday,_ 01:45

\-- and by the time they get to Dolarhyde's apartment, a horrid, _What We Do In The Shadows_ , _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ kind of mansion, Frederick is more than pleasantly buzzed and terribly horny. The van, while not exactly a first date kind of classy, has just enough space under the steering wheel for Frederick to lean down from the passenger's seat and suck Dolarhyde off right then. He wisely refrains.

 _Friday,_ 15:41

Frederick spends most of his coffee break at the staff exit, smoking (a terrible habit he picked up along with the rest of his year back at college) and reading up on security regulations. Frederick doesn't notice the man coming up to stand next to him until he shifts in his peripheral.  
"¡Hola!" Frederick is of the opinion that it's better to keep your coworkers close rather than risk ending up alone and miserable. He sizes the mysterious person up, noticing, with a certain degree of respect, his lean figure and how cleanly defined his muscles are under a black leather jacket and plain shirt. "Frederick, nice to meet you."  
"Dolarhyde," the man rumbles back. "A pleasure."

 _Saturday,_ 02:27

\-- is rippling through him, tidal waves crashing hard again and again and _again_ until Frederick is strung too tight to bear down once again. Francis' hands, huge against his hips, anchor him in the place while Frederick rocks against him, his thrusts shallow and off-rhythm.

This is all working out rather nicely,

 _Friday_ , 16:30

\--Frederick thinks. his job is basically done for the day, but he has to stay until at least 5 to wrap the whole thing up. He's by the exit again, finishing the last of his cigarillos. The speed with which he moved through his pack of _Café Crème_ is, frankly, disconcerting, but he can at least write it down to the first-day stress.  
He doesn't notice Dolarhyde creep up on him this time either,

 _Saturday_ , 01:58

\--his footsteps mute against the carpet. Frederick draws in a sharp breath when the man's arms wrap around his waist, bulky even against Frederick's build. Dolarhyde is a depressing 6' 2'3", as opposed to Frederick's own 5' 8½" (thank you _very much_ ), and the sharp thrill runs fast and heady through his veins. "Dee," he breathes. "Hey," which is about as eloquent as his intoxicated brain can get.  
"Hey you," the arms circle around him, barbed wire, but instead of feeling cornered, trapped, Frederick finds he enjoys the feeling. Francis' erection is slightly uncomfortable against his belly.

"What're you up to?" Frederick slurs, arching again the taller man even as he wraps his arms around his neck, pushing up on his toes. It is a considerable strain for his stomach, but nothing he can't handle.  
"Oh," Dolarhyde answers, leaning down, " _lot_ of things." He angles for a kiss, and the warm tingly feeling Frederick gets in his lips by the time they part is worth the ride already.

 _Friday,_ 17:56

"You up for a drink?" Dolarhyde the Gunshow asks Frederick on their way to the parking lot.  
"Not really," he feigns disinterest with the ease of a long background of waiting and bar-tending in every bar that would have his scrawny ass back in the gap year. "You?"  
"Yeah," he halts near a horrid, come-hither-children, off-white van. "Wanna come with?"  
"Sure," Frederick answers too quickly. "Yeah,"

 _Saturday,_ 02:13

\--"yeah, there, fuck yes," Frederick babbles, hands frantic on Dolarhyde's back as he moves against him, fingers slick. Those hands, _god_. Frederick may be developing a fixation.  
"Okay, okay _stop_ , I'm ready," he isn't, but the thought of that package sends a shiver down Frederick's spine that he's unable not to act upon. "Yeah I'm sure," he drawls. He isn't. It doesn't matter. He needs more, now.  
It should be disconcerting how quiet the other man is before and during, his attractive features much more expressive than his words ever are. Maybe, Frederick thinks, biting into yet another heated kiss, it's because of Francis' scars. Maybe it's a, a psychological thing, he supposes, and then the other man does the _thing_ with his hands and Frederick's cognitive brain functions stop for a few hours.

 _Friday,_ 18:14

The bar Dolarhyde's led him to is a clean, well-lighted place, if not a one Frederick would normally favor. It's near Dolarhyde's house, he is told. Very convenient. That's about the end of it.  
Frederick doesn't mind filling the empty space between them, not really; his ego compensates for the awkwardness of monologue. It's getting harder, though, to ignore the tension with which it's charged. The way Dolarhyde sprawls in their booth, across from Frederick, and spreads his thighs just so that he's effectively bracketing him in. Frederick thinks about taking off his shoes and giving the man a foot-job, invisible under the table. He refrains: someone has to be the adult.  
They will have the time yet, it doesn't have to be

 _Saturday,_ 03: 41

"--a one-time thing, right Dee," Frederick smirks into Francis' shoulder. They are carefully entwined under the sheets.  
He is golden, hair tousled, comfortable there in the space between the other man's neck and shoulder. It isn't surprising. It should be like this, Francis wants it to stay this way. Wants _him_ to stay.  
"Yes," he braves the 's'. He doesn't actually think of Chilton as a contest, but there is a certain satisfaction to be had from.. _from_. He forgets his point.  
Frederick nuzzles into his shoulder even harder, moves even closer, shifting until he's a warm weight against Francis' side. He falls asleep soon after, breath rising softly in his chest.

The Being, along with Francis, keeps watching for quite some time, marveling and wondering how they got to this point. Frederick's fist is balled up in his shirt near the sleeve, holding him close to the man.  
It feels ultimately right, for some reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYY please comment down below with your thoughts/prompts/etc., it's been AGES since i've written a higher-rated scene. my porn-writing muscles are out of shape  
> (fixed the minor stuff like typos and an abundance of Fredericks, but there's still a lot i KNOW i haven't noticed. please lend a helping hand if you happen to notice anything)


End file.
